


The Blood We Share

by sleepypercy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bloodplay, Bottom Sam, Dark, M/M, Serial Killer Sam, Topping from the Bottom, Violence, season 4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-10
Updated: 2014-06-10
Packaged: 2018-02-04 02:30:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1762961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepypercy/pseuds/sleepypercy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>From the moment Dean had crawled out of his grave, spitting out dirt and gasping for air, he hadn’t suffered from any delusions that he’d actually left Hell behind. Dean wasn't the same person that he’d been before the hounds had dragged him to Hell. But, as he soon came to realize, neither was Sam.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Blood We Share

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was made for the ever-lovely and talented kinkajou and her inspirational, amazing [art](http://kinkajou.livejournal.com/22053.html) from which I stole the title. And thank you [ephermeralk](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ephermeralk) for the encouragement and beta - even though I tore it apart again after you looked at it. (alssso, <3 [katstark](http://archiveofourown.org/users/katstark) You know why).

From the moment Dean had crawled out of his grave, spitting out dirt and gasping for air, he hadn’t suffered from any delusions that he’d actually left Hell behind. It was inside him, nested like a cancer and methodically metastasizing through whatever human parts of him had been left. Castiel hadn’t known it, but by the time he’d gripped him tight and raised him from perdition, there hadn't been enough of Dean Winchester left to save. Alastair had carved and torn and broken Dean’s soul in every way possible before reshaping the pieces and stitching them together to form a new kind of animal.  
  
Dean had tried to push down all those hot, blood-filled urges when he came topside. He knew, however, that no matter what he did from then on, there was no way Heaven would ever let him in. He’d been corrupted beyond repair or redemption. It doesn’t stop him from trying, for a while anyway.  
  
He thought that he’d hid it well – how much more satisfying it felt to dig into a body, to feel the wet, cracking give of bone and tissue under his knuckles. It didn’t matter if it was human or monster, just so long as it bled.  
  
Thankfully, he hadn’t run out of the latter option yet. As long as he kept on hunting, kept finding something to ease the niggling in his brain that needed to feel the spurt of blood beneath a knife, the snap of bone beneath his fist, he could keep his new instincts in check. Even use them to his advantage.  
  
Dean wasn't the same person that he’d been before the hounds had dragged him to Hell. But, as he soon came to realize, neither was Sam.   
  
\---  
  
Sam’s cheeks are flushed with excitement, his fox eyes narrowed in the dim light. His hands move in light, steady strokes as he brings the blade across the softest parts of the girl’s body. She twitches and gasps, goose bumps rising on her skin like it tickles just before the sharp paper-cut pain registers.   
  
There’s an intense furrow between his eyes, a smile on his lips that makes his dimples tease against his cheeks. Dean can see Sam’s body – usually so wound up with tension – visibly relax every time his knife cracks open a new section of skin.  
  
Something like approval lodges itself inside Dean’s chest, slats between his ribs so his chest feels tight and full. The feeling intensifies as Dean watches Sam continue to slash and cut, fingers pressing into the wounds until his hands are covered in sticky red.  
  
Some sick part of Dean thrills as he thinks about his brother having to collect all his pieces after the Hellhounds had attacked him. How his limp, torn carcass would have looked in Sam’s arms, blood soaking thick through his clothes, seeping deep into his pores. How the metallic smell of Dean’s blood would have lingered on Sam’s skin for days after Dean was already planted six feet under.  
  
Sam has never been to Hell, but Dean wonders if Hell has found a way to crawl inside Sam. If all that demon blood Sam’s been ingesting has infected him deeper than he’ll ever know. If it’s gotten inside his veins and nested inside his brain, rewiring synapses and skipping over all that empathy and guilt; two things that have always been an integral part of Sam.  
  
Dean knows torture; he’d apprenticed under the best. Downstairs, Alastair’s a master. Has it down to a science. But Sam… he has it down to an art form. He lays the girls on their beds, arranging them just so before he begins his work. Dean doesn’t know why, whether it’s a personal preference or if the reasons go deeper than that, but he always brings back the same kind of girl. Blonde, pretty, tiny.  
  
Sometimes he empties out their middles like a gourd, scraping out their insides until they’re a clean, hollow shell that he can fill with whatever he wants. Flowers, rocks, salt. Skittles.  
  
Sometimes he binds and gags them and lets them bleed out slowly, humming “Hey Jude” to himself while he watches the life drain from their bodies.  
  
Once he traced a knife around the blue veins of a pale girl, up and down and around her entire body until she had a network of red, dripping tree branches carved into her skin.  
  
Sam had smiled wide at that last one, fingers tracing those cuts over and over again while the girl whimpered and cried. The movements were almost tender, and an unexpected thrill of arousal had buzzed across Dean’s skin, slipping into his bloodstream until he was filled with sharp, dirty want. He had imagined himself laid out like one of Sam’s girls, soft and pliant while Sam’s hands roamed wherever he pleased.  
  
And then he had decided that he was done watching.  
  
He’s hard again tonight but clenches his hands into tight fists to distract himself from the heat between his legs as he watches his brother work. When Sam’s finished, dropped his hands from the girl’s throat where he’d pressed into her windpipe until she’d stopped breathing, Dean slips out from the shadows and steps inside the room.  
  
His brother tenses immediately, mouth a hard line and eyes defiant and angry. There’s a twitch to his mouth, just at the corners, which Dean recognizes as panic, but Sam swallows it back before it goes very far. Dean’s used to his brother being pissed and reticent, has been dealing with silent tantrums and cold secrecy for months now. So Sam’s current irritation is just another drop in an already-full bucket of resentment.  
  
“Looks like you’ve got yourself a new hobby,” Dean states, nodding towards the dead girl. Now that he’s closer, he recognizes her as a nurse from the hospital they’d swung by just yesterday. She’d been in the victim’s room, changing out some IV fluids, and had insisted on checking Dean out when she’d seen the blood stain on his shirt from a set of torn stitches.  
  
Dean had tried to refuse her help, but she’d waved off his protests and ended up cleaning the wound and fixing him up with some butterfly bandages, winking as she’d told him it was ‘on the house’ and to take it easy for a few days.  
  
Seeing her laid out on the bed, blue eyes emptied like an overturned glass of water, Dean’s surprised at his lack of sympathy or concern. She belongs to Sam now.  
  
“If that’s what you wanna call it,” Sam answers with a wry, hint of a smile. It fades quickly when Sam squints at Dean and warily asks, “You here to stop me?”  
  
Dean shakes his head, looks down at the blood dripping off the edge of his brother’s fingernails. There’s a sudden sour taste in his mouth, fuzzy on the back of his tongue like downing orange juice after brushing his teeth, as he wonders what this girl had done to catch his brother’s eye.  
  
“I’m not gonna quit,” Sam warns, chin tilted up stubbornly like he’s waiting for Dean to argue. “I can’t stop now, Dean. So you’re gonna have to either hunt me down or let me go.”  
  
Dean shakes his head again. He walks past his brother and runs a finger against the edge of the dead girl’s feet where blood is starting to congeal between the toes, and he wonders how he can be so damn jealous of a corpse. His brother should know by now that killing Sam is something Dean could _never_ do. Not when their dad asked him to, not by failing to put himself between his baby brother and a thousand different possibilities of harm, and certainly not by allowing Sam to stay dead when Dean’s poor excuse for a soul could still be used in trade. It’s always scared Dean, how much he’s willing to sacrifice, how far he’d allow the world to fall to pieces, before he’d ever give Sam up.  
  
“Not letting you go,” Dean says tightly, glaring down at the pale body on the bed, his thumb on her anklebone. “Not killing you, either. But you gotta tell me… why you can’t take your fuckin’ eyes offa her, man, when you haven’t looked me in the eye for months. You barely know her, and somehow she means more to you than your own brother.”  
  
Sam’s hand darts out to grab at Dean’s wrist, yanking him away from the cooling body. “She’s dead,” Sam hisses, expression fierce. “She doesn’t _mean anything_.” The pressure of Sam’s bruising grip is enough to make Dean’s pulse jump. “And you’re an idiot. You don’t get it. I just… I just needed to see her bleed.”  
  
“Well, _fuck that_.” Dean’s angry again, shaking off Sam’s hold. His fingers fumble with the buttons to his shirt. Whatever doesn’t immediately give, he tears off, plastic buttons flying across the floor, until he’s standing in the room, chest bare and both layers of shirts thrown on the floor. “I bleed too, Sammy. You need to see someone bleed? Well how about me?”  
  
Sam goes thoughtfully quiet, eyes raking across the naked skin that’s flushed hot with adrenaline and arousal. Then his hazel eyes flick down, taking in the outward slope of the erection straining against the button of Dean’s jeans, and an amused smirk crosses his lips.  
  
He looks at Dean, wet mouth parting like he’s about to speak, but Dean doesn’t want to hear it so he darts out a hand to grab at the knife Sam had left on the bed. The blood makes it stick to the blankets for a second before Dean peels it off and wipes the mess off on his pants. Grabbing Sam’s hand, he pushes the hilt into his palm and forces his brother’s fingers to close.  
  
“C’mon, Sammy,” Dean says, and his brother’s name always sounds like a broken prayer when he begs. “I’ll bleed real pretty for you. Promise.”  
  
Sam’s eyes dart back down again, tracking all that exposed flesh as he swallows thickly and tightens his grip on the knife. Then his eyes come up to meet Dean’s, hazel irises darkened to burnt cedar wood. His hand comes up for a moment, like he’s about to cut, but then his expression hardens and he shakes his head.  
  
“ _Dammit_ , Dean,” Sam says, and he sounds extremely pissed off. He takes the knife, thrusts it straight into the mattress, just to the left of the dead girl’s knee. “Do you really have that little self-regard? What about bloodborne pathogens? Diseases? I know you know this stuff! God, you’re the one who made sure _I_ knew before I started chopping up monsters with you and Dad. You can’t take these kinds of stupid risks with your body.”  
  
Adding something under his breath about Dean being a _stubborn, hypocritical dick_ , Sam reaches inside Dean’s jacket, checking all the pockets in the lining, before he grabs Dean by the arm, holding him still while he pulls out the large switchblade from Dean’s back pocket.  
  
“You sure you want this?” Sam asks, cheeks flushed red, jaw tight.  
  
“Yeah, Sammy,” Dean answers with much more certainty than he feels. He watches as his little brother pulls open the blade. It’s sharp and ready, like their weapons always are because John insisted upon it, and because sharpening knives is the only thing that stops the shaking in Dean’s hands since he’d come back.  
  
The presence of a blade positioned between Dean and his brother turns him more apprehensive than he’d anticipated; those thirty years strapped to the rack hadn’t felt nearly as good as the ten he’d spent on the other side of the knife. But he shoves aside all those uncertainties, only knows that he wants to be close to his brother, and softly adds, “Please.”  
  
“Fine,” Sam says immediately, voice low. He grabs Dean by the throat, fingers digging in hard as presses his body against Dean’s, rubs their cheeks together and pushes his mouth near his brother’s ear. “But we do this the right way.”   
  
Dean tips up his chin, exposing all that vulnerable, freckled flesh to his brother just before Sam’s hand flexes and shoves Dean back with enough force to make Dean bounce on the mattress. He quickly settles in next to the dead nurse, getting his bearings as his body lights up with anticipation. Dean can’t help feeling triumphant because _he matters_. He matters enough for Sam to do this, to discover how his skin splits open at the seams, to expose all those parts inside him that seem to fascinate Sam. The same parts that made Alastair praise him time and again for how Dean’s body was _made_ for carving into. How he was the perfect vessel, the perfect canvas.  
  
Dean stares up at his brother, and he knows this is nothing like Hell. Because he wants this. He wants whatever Sam wants. And he knows – fucking _knows_ because this is Sam – that whatever his brother does to him, he’ll stitch him back together when he’s done.  
  
“You know, I’ve _seen_ you bleed before, Dean,” Sam says under his breath as he crawls over Dean, straddling his thighs around Dean’s hips, and Dean’s eyes roll back as all that delicious heat bleeds into his erection. “Don’t need to imagine it. You’re reckless. Impulsive. Get yourself hurt all the goddamn time. I think maybe you like it.” Sam’s back bows as he trails the knife along Dean’s skin, the edge of the blade catching on old scar tissue and skating across honey-colored freckles.  
  
He brings the sharp metal to Dean’s chest, cutting a careful slice a few inches under his collarbone, and Dean holds back a sharp hiss at the severed nerves. It hurts, but it makes Dean feel alive under Sam’s hands in a way that he hasn’t felt for a long time. Sam repeats the motion with another shallow cut to Dean’s arm and a third just over Dean’s appendix, deep enough to make the blood well up and spill down but never going beyond superficial soft tissue.  
  
One of Sam’s hands rests on Dean’s belly as he watches the blood steadily leak out. His mouth opens, lips barely an inch apart, breath coming and going in soft pants. Dean watches his brother’s mouth for a few minutes, eyes tracking soft pink flesh that he’s certain would stretch so beautifully if he took it between his teeth. But after a few minutes of silence, Dean coughs awkwardly, licks his lips, and asks, “Is it…” he trails off, unsure, before finishing, “Is it good?”  
  
“Yeah,” Sam says, tone reverent. He places both hands flat to Dean’s chest and leans down, breath sweeping across skin and spilled blood. “You were right. You do bleed pretty.” His mouth opens as he flattens his tongue to the wound and licks a broad stripe across the wet cut. It stings for a few seconds before it feels good, soothing the edges of the hot lesion, and Dean can’t help closing his eyes and making soft noises of approval while his brother does the same thing to the other two wounds, pushing his tongue flat to the edges and slowly licking across each one. They start tingling, tiny bits of pain mixed with a strange numbness that settle across Dean like a familiar, comforting blanket.  
  
Dean’s hands end up in Sam’s hair, soft strands running between his fingers. He’s not aware that his hips have been rolling into Sam until his brother pulls back and places his hands on Dean’s hipbones to still them.  
  
Sam smirks, red film over his teeth, dimples etching deep into his cheeks. Dean reaches up to grab at Sam, saliva pooling on his tongue, desperate to press his mouth against his brother who has never looked more wild and beautiful. But Sam leans back, laughing darkly and shaking his head.  
  
“You don’t get to touch,” he warns, and the cold note in his voice makes Dean go still, hands falling to his sides. “See, I think part of you thinks you own this body. That just because there was a time when you helped dress and feed and bathe me that my sweet ass somehow belongs to you.” Sam ruts forward again, hard, and it punches a low moan from Dean, which makes Sam grin. “You think I never noticed how pissy you acted after Meg took my meatsuit for a ride? How you’d glare at anyone who got too close, couldn’t even have someone touching me without you getting all possessive and damn near snapping their wrist in two.” Sam continues rocking back and forth as he tugs off his t-shirt, throwing it on the floor before climbing off the bed so he can work on his jeans. “If you wanted a turn, Dean, all you had to do was ask. But this is happening on my terms, big brother.”  
  
When Sam’s entirely stripped down, Dean has to stop himself from reaching out again, fingers desperate to slide against all the delineations of muscles and bones. Sam’s hips especially look like the perfect handle for Dean’s hands, their bones curving below Sam’s smooth waist before narrowing down his pelvis. But Sam shakes his head again, hair sliding against his neck, accurately reading the obvious want in Dean’s eyes.  
  
“Pull yourself out,” he orders, and the commanding tone lights up a sharp thrill at the end of Dean’s spine, triggering a deep-rooted response inside him to submit to that authority. It’s not a reaction that just anyone can spark. But the cold detachment in Sam’s eyes, the growl in his voice that sounds too much like John, and the preexisting need to make him happy at all costs switches on Dean’s compulsion to fall in line, find approval through obedience. Somehow the fact that this is his little brother giving the orders only makes him want it more.  
  
The part of Dean that never quite left Hell hums in approval.  
  
Dean’s hands fly to the front of his jeans, fumbling with his belt before popping open each heavy button down the fly. Sam watches intently while Dean shoves the crotch wide, sliding his jeans just far enough down his hips to give him room to pull his dick out through the slit in his underwear, his hard-on hot and blood-heavy in his hand.  
  
“There you go, sweetheart,” Sam croons approvingly, voice dropped to a low vibration. “You look so hot when you’re following my orders.” There’s a twitch at the edge of his lips, like he knows Dean resents the way those words make his cock harden even further, precome drooling out the slit in viscous beads.  
  
Sam’s head falls forward, bangs falling into his eyes as he looks through his lashes at Dean. “You’ve been keeping secrets,” he says mildly as his hand reaches out to touch the tip of Dean’s cock, fingertip swirling around the slick head. Dean sucks in a sharp gasp and arches into the touch, pleasure washing down as he whines softly because Sam’s slow, light touches aren’t nearly enough. Smirking, Sam lifts up his finger, now shiny with Dean’s slick, and pushes it right against Dean’s lips.  
  
“Open.”  
  
Without hesitation, Dean’s parts his mouth, let’s Sam’s wet finger slip inside and rub against Dean’s tongue, making him taste the salty flavors of his own preseminal fluid. After his finger’s been licked clean, Sam pops it out of Dean’s mouth and bends to the side of the bed to open what Dean recognizes as Sam’s portable bag of hunting gear-turned serial killer’s toolkit. He reaches into the front pocket, pulling out a small container of Vaseline.  
  
“You want in this ass?” Sam asks with a crooked smile, one hand idly rubbing against his own dick, still mostly soft but starting to perk up in interest.  
  
Dean nods, and Sam crawls back on top, spreads his legs around Dean’s hips and leans forward. All his warm, tan skin is pressing down on Dean’s pink-flushed chest as he opens the container and slicks up a couple of Dean’s fingers. Sam guides Dean’s hand around curved muscles, sliding them across firm skin until they slip down into the ridge between his cheeks.  
  
“Work me open,” Sam instructs, letting go of Dean so he can push his hands against the bedspread, resting his weight forward while Dean circles the soft hole. When Dean breaches his ass, Sam’s eyes flutter back and an approving noise sounds from this throat. “That’s it,” he murmurs. “Know you want inside. Know – _fuck_ , right there – know you want me. Go ahead, add another finger, Dean.” Sam continues murmuring instructions as Dean opens him up, rocking into the stretch and burn, small praises peppered around groans by the time Dean’s worked up to three fingers.  
  
When Sam’s ready, he pulls Dean’s hand away, stretching it above Dean’s head as he tells him to keep it there. He then attacks Dean’s mouth, licking his way deep inside until Dean’s gasping for breath. There’s still blood on Sam’s tongue as he pushes it against Dean’s, filling Dean’s mouth with the dull, coppery taste that makes Dean wonder if Sam’s blood tastes the same, just how close their genetics match up. When Sam pulls back, Dean makes a pained sound and grabs at him, too caught up in need and pleasure and forgetting Sam’s harsh orders for just a moment.  
  
The punishment for breaking the rules is immediate, a sharp sound of open palm hitting skin and Dean’s head jerks back, supernovas exploding behind his eyelids. He can feel the blood rising to the surface of his skin, painting his cheek in bright red.  
  
“You wanna be my bitch, you have to lie still,” Sam says, slow and measured. Dean can see the barely-contained fury hidden behind his calm expression. “Hands above your head.”  
  
Dean nods as he moves his arms back up, tears trickling from the corners of his eyes from the sting of the slap. He doesn’t seem able to control it, some dam inside him broken as his eyes continue to leak salt-water in slow, steady streams.  
  
Sam fingers trail through the tears, and Dean jerks his head to the side, hating the feel of his own wet cheeks. “Shhh…” Sam calms him, leans down to press his lips just outside the corners of Dean’s eyes. He lets his mouth trail across Dean’s cheeks, following the tear tracks to behind Dean’s ear, pausing to suck and nibble at the salty flavors. Somehow, Dean manages to keep his hands down, fisting the bedspread from above his head and letting his heels dig into the mattress while Sam’s mouth keeps drawing skin behind his teeth. He can feel the hot, wet huffs of Sam’s breath when he chuckles and pulls up with a smile, leaving a damp, red mouth print behind. “Good boy,” he says approvingly. His dimples pop out as he winks and asks, “Think I can make you scream as loud as the girl from last week?”  
  
Without waiting for an answer, Sam reaches back and takes Dean dick in his hand, causing Dean’s hips to jerk up at the stimuli. Lining himself up, Sam sinks down steadily, letting Dean fill him slowly as he arches his back, eyelashes fluttering and lip caught under his own teeth.  
  
“ _God_ ,” Sam breathes out. He adjusts himself, working Dean’s cock all the way inside until Dean’s balls are resting against his ass. “Better enjoy this,” Sam says, hands steadying themselves on Dean’s chest as he rolls his hips in circles, fitting Dean in tight. “Gonna be the only time I let you in.”  
  
Just as Dean thinks he’s gonna go crazy if Sam doesn’t move, he starts rolling himself up and down, pulling his hips up high enough up that Dean can feel the head of his cock caught just inside Sam’s ass before slamming himself in deep enough that he grunts with the impact. After a few experimental thrusts, Sam finds his rhythm, slamming down against Dean in bone-shaking thrusts, head thrown back, eyes clenched tight and fingers digging into Dean’s already-torn skin. His lips mumble little sounds as he continues to ride Dean, hips turning more aggressive as he keeps going, fucking himself harder and it’s all Dean can do to grip the blankets tight and try _not to_ _touch_.  
  
The sensations are too much, and Dean finds himself slamming into his orgasm like a sudden tidal wave, unexpected and bordering on painful. He can feel the slickness of his come filling Sam’s insides as Sam continues to rock up and down, and the obscene, wet sounds of Dean’s come seeping out around his cock fill the room. When Sam finally relents, pushes his sweaty bangs out of his eyes and draws himself off of Dean’s softening dick, he scoots up Dean’s chest until he’s right in front of his face.  
  
“Open,” he orders, wry, tired smile on his face.  
  
Dean still hasn’t quite caught his breath. But he lets his lips part as Sam pushes the head of his cock inside, covering up his teeth as Sam shoves in deep without any regard for Dean’s need to breathe. Fingers gripped tightly into the back of Dean’s head, Sam slams in and out, in and out. Rocks against Dean hard enough to make the bed shake.  
  
It only takes a few pumps before Sam pulls out and comes all over Dean’s face. Dean closes his eyes, feels it clumping in his eyelashes and dripping down his cheeks. He wipes it from his eyes as Sam rolls off and lets his body fall to the side. Arms reaching around Dean’s chest, he molds Dean against his front as his chest pushes in and out in slowing exhalations. Sam noses into the tip of Dean’s spine, up and down the sensitive skin before laying open-mouthed kisses across the back of his neck.  
  
Dean huffs tiredly. It figures that, even with the fresh blood of a dead nurse under his fingernails, his brother’s still a cuddler.  
  
When Dean squirms, tries to pull out and maybe attempt to clean himself up, Sam tightens his grip in what feels like a warning. So Dean goes still. Lets Sam continue to drag his lips across the dips of his shoulders and back in a way that somehow feels way more intimate than the fucking.  
  
Eventually Sam settles down, arms still tight around Dean, refusing to let go. And despite the fact that Dean’s covered in bruises and bloody fingerprints, he relaxes into the possessive grip of Sam’s hands. Trusts his brother enough to lose himself in unconsciousness for just a few moments.  
  
Whatever happens now, Dean figures that if Hell has well and truly made itself at home inside Sam, he’d rather fall into damnation with his brother than end up in Heaven anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments always appreciated <3


End file.
